Stained Hearts and Permanent Ink
by maeveam
Summary: Katsuki stumbled upon a craft when the world decided to continue on without him, and from ground zero builds himself an empire stained in ink.
1. Bad Decisions

**a/n:** _Well, this got out of hand whoops. Yes Aury, start another multific bc you don't already have three other ones to tend to. I blame aloosh-s for their **absolutely perfect** tattooist au and my unrelenting need to have it written out because its based entirely on it. Not entirely sure how many chapters this will end up having, but be prepared for I am trash and accept this wholeheartedly._

* * *

Katsuki isn't fond of the way people stare at him when he walks the streets of Hosu, but a part of him doesn't care what they think to begin with and he keeps trudging on, ignoring the way he can see in their eyes their thoughts of him as if they'd said it aloud and to his face. _This kid is a thug, a delinquent, amounts to nothing in the end._ They know little to nothing about him, his life and his aspirations and maybe, just _maybe_ if they did it'd change their minds. He won't tell them; they don't deserve to know. They're all wrong, always will be wrong but it doesn't stop them from judging and doesn't drive him to suddenly change in hopes their opinions would too.

He is a work of art, like anyone else with attributes that equate to masterpieces or blunders and he'll be damned if he forces himself to be anything but Katsuki for the whims of some close minded fuck. As he looks through the glass door, his reflection staring back at him, he decides quickly that all opinions of him except his own don't matter, because they will never have what he has _—_ an escape. Katsuki walks into his and he is at peace, surrounded by the soft hum of a powered needle and the distinct smell of ink and peroxide. _Fuck, it's good to be home._

His station is near the back corner, closest the office whose door remains locked and closest to the array of colored inks and sterilized tools; his sanctuary of sorts. Katsuki tosses his pack onto his stool, rummaging its confines until he finds his latest creation; a red and gold dragon, whose body would soon trace the divots and curves of the arm of the customer who decides _yeah, that's the one_. He slides it into the plastic sleeve of his portfolio, careful and meticulous, ignoring just how intently gold eyes watch his every move. _"_ _Something you want to say, Pinkie?"_

 _"_ _Good morning to you too, hard ass."_ Her tone is light, playful, full of just enough sass and anarchy that it brings the smallest grin to his face. _"_ _Just finish that one?"_ Her eyes are trained on the drawing beneath his hand and he can see the wheels turning in her head; he glances at her arm, bare and tinted with the faintest hue of pink and then back at the portrait. _Too small,_ he muses, _it'd never fit._ _"_ _Last night, what of it?"_ He hears her mumble beneath her breath and thinks for a second he heard her wrong. When he looks to her, brow raised and curiosity piqued, he notices immediately how she flushes and he finds _way_ too much enjoyment out of her embarrassment. _"_ _What was that, Pinkie?"_

She knows he heard her; she can see it in the shit eating grin that's morphed onto his face the longer he waits. _"_ _You heard me, ass,"_ she turns back to her desk and rummages through the appointment list, _"_ _I said Eijirou would like that."_ It's not at all what she said and he briefly wonders if he should let her off the hook and salvage what's left of her pride. Katsuki turns to prep his equipment. _"_ _Don't worry, I'll be sure to let shitty hair know you think it'll look_ ** _real_** _good on him."_

 _"_ _You wouldn't dare!"_

She is mortified; he can feel it rolling off of her in waves and knows if he were to meet her glare (of which he was certain was directed at his back even now) it would be twisted into something akin to the terror in her voice. _"_ _Wouldn't I?"_

He wouldn't, but she didn't need to know that.

 _"_ _Whatever; you have a full day today."_ Katsuki glances at the schedule she places on his counter; there are some names he recognizes and some he doesn't, regulars he's worked on more times than he can count and projects he's very keen to continue. _"_ _Any of them here yet?"_ He calls over his shoulder, reaching for a few bottles of ink he knows he'll be using for the day _—_ black, green, a few shades of red. Colors he rarely uses catch his eye, a deep shade of pink in particular but he doesn't reach for them, placing each color with a design of his own making and a mental note to make them come to life later. _"_ _Your first two just walked in."_

When he peeks around the division he sees first an arm covered entirely in scripted words arranged in every way except normal and with amorphous dots of black weaved in between, spilled from a design he has yet to finish; a ink bottle outlined in black. _"_ _About time you brought your ass back in here, Jirou."_ Behind her is a customer he doesn't recognize, his body without a trace of ink to be seen. _Time to change that,_ he thinks as Mina sits him down, clipboard in hand.

 _"_ _Yeah, it's been awhile. Sorry about that."_ She sits on his table, removing her jacket and tossing it on the counter. _"_ _I've gotten so many compliments on it that I forgot it wasn't finished."_ Katsuki doesn't stop the grin that finds its way onto his face, always proud when his work is admired because in a way _he_ is admired through it. _I amount to more than you fucks give me credit for._

They'd see that, if only they look beyond his surface _—_ his masks and veil of ink.

 _"_ _You better have, look who designed that shit after all."_ His confidence is bone deep and justifiably so, having stumbled upon the craft when the world decided to continue on without him and flourished despite everything that threatened to keep him down. It was one long, painful and incredibly exhausting year, but from a blank canvas an empire was set in ink. _"_ _So, you ready to finish what you started?"_ She's as eager to feel the vibration of the needle driving into her skin as he is to feel it hum against his hand, bouncing in her seat like a child whose being taunted with a present.

Katsuki reaches for the closest bottle of ink, deciding it as good a color as any to start and prepares the paint. _"_ _I was born ready."_ With the press of a button the gun comes to life, an hour and a half passing by in the blink of an eye as he loses himself in blends of shaded colors, the sound of his machine like music to his ears.

xXx

There's a bell that sounds each time someone walks through the door, a small tune that Katsuki hardly notices when he's layering ink atop skin, or when he's doing anything for that matter _—_ there's very little that can rip his attention away from his trade (whether his ignorance is selective or justified no one knows for sure). _"_ _Oh, hottie at 12 o'clock."_ He doesn't understand how off all things Mina says to him on any given occasion, this is the one he hears as he's drawing out his next client's piece. He understands even less why he decides to look up mid-line and understands _least_ of all why his pencil veers off course when he's never had an issue drawing blindly before. _"_ _You alright there, killer?"_ He can hear the smug undertone and when Katsuki meets her curious glance with a raised brow of his own, he knows she saw everything and then some.

He throws his pencil at her because he fucking can. _"_ _Shut up and go find out what she wants; she looks lost as hell."_ The longer he stares, the more he realizes how much of an understatement it truly is. From his view well across the shop, he can see just how nervous she is and realizes quickly she's never gotten a tattoo before, let alone stepped foot into a shop. Katsuki reaches for another pencil, staring daggers at the skewed line before erasing it and finishes his sketch.

And when Mina asks him why he glanced upward every so often, he denies it with his last breath.

 _"_ _Sure, sure."_ She spares him his ego and he silently thanks her for it. _"_ _Well, she's a walk in. You were dead on when you said she was lost, too."_ Mina takes a seat on his table, looking over her notes. _"_ _Girl is a walking mess of nerves and scared of needles to boot."_ Katsuki glances past Mina and watches how she twiddles her thumbs in her lap, leg twitching rapidly in her wait. _"_ _What the fuck is she doing here then?"_ He mutters it under the cover of his breath, but Mina hears it. _"_ _No idea, but I figure you can find out when you consult with her."_ Every part of him hates the mischievous glint that resides in her eyes and he once again loses his pencil in favor of throwing it at her. _"_ _Fuck off, I'm busy."_

 _"_ _Hey Ochako, come here a second."_ She's all too happy to call her over and enjoys too much how he squirms in his seat. _"_ _God damn it Pinkie, I said I was busy!"_ She tosses him a look that shuts down every rebuttal he could have hoped to muster up in the time it takes her to reach his station and when he opens his mouth to try one last time, he's shut down again because _too fucking bad, you're doing it anyway. "This is Bakugou, our lead artist and he's_ ** _very_** _happy to help." So that's how she wants to play it, huh?_

Maybe he would tell Eijirou just what she said after all.

 _"_ _I'm sorry to be a bother, I know you're busy and I don't have an appointment and—"_ The words fall from her lips in a hurry, jumbled and nervous and _fuck, why is that cute?_ _"_ _Don't sweat it."_ He puts to the side his next client's sketch and replaces it with a blank page, reaching for a third pencil. _"_ _What's up?"_ She's weightless as she hops onto his table, her legs swinging to and fro in the height of her unease _. "I've never done anything like this before and I'm not exactly sure what I want to get; something small definitely. What do you think?"_

It's a decision she has to make, he decides, because it's her body—her canvas and hers alone. _"_ _Tell you what; start naming off ideas you've got and we'll come up with some shit together."_ It's the best he can offer and she seems to agree. So she does.

Katsuki's hand moves on its own accord as he listens to her; his mind filters through every piece he's ever inked, every idea he's ever had and combines them with the ideas she comes up with. When he finally looks over his sketches he sees potential in some, others he would rather save for something else and one that nearly sends him off his seat in unabashed laughter. In his opinion, no tattoo fit better for this situation than the baby's face center his paper, with tear stricken eyes and puffy red cheeks.

He should feel bad, he really should, but he doesn't and she doesn't seem to mind.

 _"_ _Cute, but I think you missed the snot coming out of her nose."_ Interesting. He looks it over once, imagining the addition and draws it. _Well, she's not wrong_ and he enjoys the laughter that comes from her when she sees it _._ Katsuki watches how her shoulders once full of tension ease slightly, her legs swinging a little less frantically than before. He reaches behind him for a drawer, rummaging through it until he has what he wants; he places the gun in front of her and watches how she tenses again.

 _"_ _Pinkie,"_ he calls to her absentmindedly, pulling his stool to sit in front of Ochako, placing the tip to her skin, _"_ _clear my day or give it to whats his face."_ He doesn't need to look in her direction to know her eyes are on him, questioning. Katsuki wagers even that if he were to look (and god knows he didn't want to), he'd see the same mischievous grin that got him into this mess in the first place. It takes everything he has not to cave under the intensity and he hates how he buckles anyway. _"_ _Fuck, just do it already."_ He'd deal with her when he was done dealing with this.

 _"_ _For someone who's clearly scared shitless of needles,"_ she opens her mouth with some form of denial he's sure, and one brow raised stops her in her tracks, _"_ _why the hell are you getting a tattoo anyway?"_ More like how did someone as soft as her grow the balls to go through with it, but semantics. Ochako chuckles, her free hand reaching to conceal her embarrassment, pitifully in the end. " _I was dared by a few friends and well, here I am I guess."_

When he says nothing she peeks between her fingers, not sure what she would find but not at all expecting the lack of expression that was there. _"_ _You're clearly uncomfortable."_ She tilts her head to the side and he sighs, pressing the tattoo gun to her skin a second time; she cringes and his point is made. _"_ _It's just a stupid game. You don't have to follow such ridiculous shit to this extent for your 'friends'."_ She knows this, but its not the point. _"_ _It's complicated."_

 _"_ _Simplify it."_

Ochako sighs. _"_ _If I don't go through with it, I'll be at the mercy of their teasing; they'll say I'm weak, that I'm fragile. That's why they gave me this dare and I want so badly to prove them wrong."_ Katsuki watches the fire light in her eyes, the determination trumping her forced unease but still, it doesn't erase the fact that it's _there_ and for an endeavor like this, permanent and absolute, it shouldn't be. _"_ _Doesn't that fucked up situation remove them from your friends list?"_ When she doesn't answer, he doesn't press; it's not his business anyway. _"_ _Whatever, it's your decision. I wouldn't keep those fuckers close if I were you."_

He drops the matter right after and when she remains silent, he changes the subject. _"_ _Have you decided what you want?"_ Ochako fidgets in her seat and he watches how the gears turn in her head. Her lips purse and her brows scrunch. _"_ _Yeah, no... I have no idea."_ His face falls, _should've saw that one coming. "Uhmm, what comes to mind when you look at my face?"_

 _"_ _Puffy donuts."_ He doesn't miss a beat, saying it without so much as a second thought and when her head snaps towards him, a look of something similar to disgust mixed with mirth, he knows he's going to enjoy this a little _too_ much. " _No way."_

 _"_ _Fluffy clouds, marshmallows, balloons and teddy bears all pinks and yellows."_ With every outlandish suggestion comes a new warped expression and he wonders just how many she can make before he runs out of comedic gold. _"_ _Oh, how about a big ass ba—"_

" _For the love of all things sane, stop joking!"_

Ochako swats at him with an open palm and misses, tumbling forward in hysterics. She's distracted, her unease melting away and when Katsuki grabs the tattoo gun and places it to her skin, she doesn't flinch. _There we go._ She feels the cooled metal against her arm and her laughter stops; her first instinct is to shy away, but she doesn't. In his hand, the idea of a needle seems just a bit less terrifying and she muses, _maybe I can do this after all._ She smiles, genuine and unrestrained because she's comfortable in the presence of her fear because he _makes_ her comfortable. She smiles, reaching her ears with ease and it blinds him; the twinkle in her eye, the crease of her lips and _yeah, that's what we're doing._

 _"_ _Do you know where you want this thing?"_ He assumes she doesn't and isn't disappointed when she shakes her head. He looks her over once and makes the decision for her. _"_ _Unbutton your shirt."_ Katsuki is reminded of the pink ink that sits on his shelf untouched when she wraps her arms around herself, cheeks flush and eyes wide. Ochako panics. _"_ _Hey, chill out Round Face, I didn't tell you to strip! Just unbutton the first couple of buttons."_ He feels the heat travel to his own cheeks; _not even fucking close to what I meant_.

When she's calm, he's given a view of her collar bone, the space in mind perfect for what he has planned. _"_ _It'll look beautiful here,"_ he breathes, lost in his design and not at all conscious of that fact that she hears him or how she trembles beneath his touch when his fingers trail against her skin. He leaves her as he rounds up his gear, grabbing a few inks (pink included) and returns to his seat. He shows her every tool he plans to use as he pieces it together, describes every sensation she may feel when he starts his process (he's worked hard to get her where she is now and he'll be damned if he has to start from the beginning). With a press of a button, the gun hums to life and he readies his grip.

It's now or never.

 _"_ _Wait."_ He's inches from his starting point when she stops him and he idly wonders if she's going to back down. _"_ _Could you… could you keep talking? Your voice is really calming and I'm still way too nervous and—"_ She's rambling again, thinly veiled confidence shattering the closer the needle gets to her. He rolls his eyes, because it's with little effort she convinces him to soothe her woes and when he glances back towards Mina (who he's sure has been watching the whole damn time) he can see just how much she's enjoyed him in and out of his comfort zone. He ignores her and focuses solely on Ochako.

Katsuki doesn't tell her how she's so very wrong in her assumption that he is calming, how outside of these four walls he's everything but—explosive, volatile, a shell of anger and resentment who hides behind every mask he can create because the world doesn't deserve him at his rawest. What Ochako needs is what he is in his element and it's what he gives to her as he marks her canvas in bold lines and splashes of color.

Instead he tells her stories of past tattoo sessions, of how women took to the needle better than some grown men and when she laughs, he rips the gun away because _damn it if you make me mess up, I swear to god you'll get that stupid baby face instead._ When she asks questions about the trade and how he fell into it, he answers and when she tries to barrel through his walls and find out more, he reinforces them. When it's over, he lets her look at it in a nearby mirror and when she beams, he grins.

Ochako pays at the counter and calls back her thanks. She leaves with the promise of coming back, because _it's not so bad after all_ and _I might want another one one day._ She swears to him that she'll wear it with pride when she saunters up to her friends, the proof of her strength and the squashing of their doubt raw against her skin, bright with pinks and purples and blues blended inside an array of stars.

When she finally leaves, the bell sounding above her, he finds himself cornered by Mina immediately with more questions than he cares to deal with. " _Fuck off Pinkie, it was just another session."_ He swears by this through grit teeth, even as he tucks her paper of ideas away in his desk. _"_ _Is that so?"_ He doesn't like the sound of her tone, accusing and all knowing and likes even less the goddamn twinkle that seems stuck in her eye. _"_ _Seems more like Mr. Hard Ass was getting_ ** _real_** _soft on his walk in hottie."_

Katsuki reaches for his pencil out of practiced habit, prepared to launch it at her with every hope that for once he fucking hits her but is met with the tightening of his fist and lack of projectile. He looks over in abject horror when the realization smacks him dead in the face.

He was starting to run out of pencils to throw at her.


	2. Stained Hearts

**a/n:** Here, have some much needed calm before the storm comes your way. After spending a few hours chatting with aloosh-s , creator of this wonderful au and an absolute sweetheart, let me just say this... Buckle up because this is one hell of a ride. ;) Come join us in kacchako hell while you're at it: /k3KkpQq

* * *

There are many things Eijirou has walked in on during his time at the shop.

Ink fights were more often than not, a colorful mess Katsuki always mysteriously disappears from when it comes time to clean up but something he often participates in (and instigates). Blaring music was a given; alternative rock and all forms of metal, head banging and impromptu moshes but occasionally he'd hear something softer, a sound that barely broke through the office door on the rare occasions it was in use. He thinks, as he walks into the shop apprehensively, that his all-time favorite memory was when Katsuki strapped down Izuku to his table because he just wouldn't stop moving—he's known to be a perfectionist and god help you if you make him mess up.

Despite what is considered their norm in the shop, it's not odd to find a semblance of calm there either—or something relatively close. Eijirou stands in the doorway, taking in the spectacle playing out before him; Mina perched on a nearby table with a roguish grin, a spark in her eye that is nothing but trouble. Normal. Mina giving Katsuki shit about something or another, too far to hear exactly what has her lips twisting into something akin to mania when he throws his head onto the table. Creepy… but also normal. Katsuki at her mercy and otherwise taking it.

Nothing even remotely close to normal.

" _So, what happened while I was gone?"_ Because it was so painfully obvious that something _did_. When she looks at him, her eyes soften and her smile grows warmer, calling him over with the wave of her hand. Katsuki doesn't acknowledge his presence, head tucked firmly in his arms and he wonders what exactly Mina did to him. " _Oh ho ho, you're not going to believe this!"_ Eijirou doesn't doubt it, not fully believing what he was seeing to begin with. He leans against the nearest counter, bracing for impact. _This is gonna be good._ She stares him dead in the eye, gold shimmering beneath the fluorescent. " _Bakugou has a crush!"_

Silence.

He blinks. Once, twice, thrice.

" _No fucking way."_

Katsuki groans throwing himself from the cover of his arms into the mind numbing repetition of a drawing once forgotten, a string of colorful curses falling from his lips in a jumbled mess and Eijirou stands, stunned, because _holy shit does he really? "Do I look like some punk who'd have a god damn crush?"_ He hopes his face doesn't betray him, tightened and indifferent despite how on the inside he roars with emotion. Because that's _exactly_ what he fucking looks like.

He doesn't know how much time he has until his shift is over, but he knows when she left his table; three hours and twenty sev—eight minutes ago. Was he counting? Fuck no. But that doesn't stop his eyes from straying towards the clock every few minutes hoping that for once he fucked up a design enough for her to come demanding it be fixed. He knows he didn't; his meticulous nature wouldn't have let him (especially on a canvas deserving of nothing but the best), but god dammit he could wish it.

As he draws his next line, it's more curved than he wants; it throws his sketch off in the smallest of ways but he continues the stroke because he's no longer thinking of the original design (angular lines and hard divots catering to his next clients request, something he can always go back and fix) but instead what it reminds him of—round cheeks, round eyes, a curved smile that dries his mouth and tightens his core for no real reason. Katsuki's eyes drift towards the clock just as he makes to connect the lines. _Three hours and thirty thr_ — " _Oh hey, you're back already."_

Katsuki misses the connection by his entire pencil's length.

His head snaps up, thinly veiled excitement in his eyes and he's met only with Mina's shit eating grin and Eijirou's questioning stare. She's nowhere in sight, probably never was and he's caught with his pants down and his lie public. _Fuckfuckfuck._ She knows it's coming when out of pure reflex he raises his hand, pencil gripped tightly and eyes trained on her, threatening. Only when he stops mid throw, favoring instead his client's outline does she question his actions. " _Nah, fuck you; I'm keeping this one."_ Of course. Her laughter resonates throughout the shop, mirthful and light but she spares him the endless teasing, choosing her abandoned work over his obvious state of distress. He's silently thankful.

Harsh and steady he erases the mistake and revises the sketch, aware of the eyes still trained on him, intrusive. " _What do you want?"_ Katsuki makes no move to meet the curiosity he knows is on his face, mustering whatever resolve he has left to feign indifference and keep his eyes on the drawing—instead of on the clock that taunts him still. " _Just curious is all,"_ he scratches the nape of his neck, taking a seat on the closest stool, " _want to talk about it?"_

" _Fuck no."_

He's curious, intrigued even by the way Katsuki is acting so much like himself and yet so different. It's positive, he thinks, despite how he hunches over his paper, pencil pressing firm against the surface much harder than is needed—new lines are darker in comparison than old and Eijirou wonders just how long before he rips right through. He notices how his eyes never stay on the design for long, lingering upward only to be closed hastily, redirected to his paper once again.

His mind burns with questions but he doesn't pry because he knows the chances of actually getting answers. Katsuki is a closed book; the privilege to read him is held by far and few between and as one of those few, even he knows that Katsuki would sooner deny he has the capacity to hold emotion rather than to admit he is often affected by them, indifference a mask he often hides behind. Eijirou takes his leave, ready to begin his night and wonder from a distance because _there's no way he's gonna say something._ " _She was a walk in."_

Unless it was eating away at him that much.

Eijirou glances towards the front of the shop, his station then at mina, a silent question lingering in his expression; she holds up three fingers, turning back towards her desk _._ _Good,_ he thinks as he reclaims his seat. " _What was she like?"_ He treads carefully; soft spoken knowing it wouldn't take much to shut him down again. Katsuki sighs, one hand quick to rip away his beanie, abandoned on his desk as the other runs through his hair. _Perfect,_ because in a way she was, is. " _Decent."_

 _Beautiful_.

He thinks of how she walked in; confused, unsure, stumbling over herself and her words. " _Weird as shit, though."_ He chuckles, the corner of his lips twisting just so. " _Seriously, who the fuck comes into a tattoo shop scared shitless of needles?"_ He hears Mina hum, whether in agreement or amusement he is unsure but he doesn't think much on it, ignoring the fact that she's listening to begin with. " _Did she end up getting something then?"_ Katsuki recalls stars lined in black and inked with every color he feels resembles her, her essence; a beauty well beyond the grasp of any one man—among the stars and he wonders idly what it would take to be the first to reach her.

" _Yeah,"_ he's breathless when he answers, remembering the curve of her collar bone, how his mark sits just beneath, bold against the soft palate that is her skin. He curses just how noticeable it sounds because he hears it, and there's no way they didn't hear it too. _God damn it, get your shit together._ He hides himself as he turns, recomposing as he reaches for his drawer and what's tucked safely inside. " _Took forever for her to decide, too."_

His eyes trace every mark of the paper, ideas and designs he knows are his own and others that were a projection of her wants; she is creative, if nothing else. He hands the page over to Eijirou, who instantly finds what lies in the center. " _God please tell me it's not that giant ass baby!"_ Katsuki laughs, hearing only the way she laughed too. " _Nah, but that would have been fucking great, right?"_

He point to a shape, " _this,"_ his finger glides towards another, " _with a little bit of this. This shit was her idea; I just made it better with that."_ Eijirou studies it, imagining what it looks like combined and knows it was nothing short of perfect because Katsuki wouldn't let it be anything but. When he hands the page back, he watches how he cares for it with gentle hands, placing it not in his portfolio where his collections reside, but in his drawer—for his eyes and his eyes alone, he thinks.

Katsuki feels his eyes on him and he glances back, waiting for him to say something, _anything_ because he's too damn quiet and staring too damn much _._ He's warm, arms tensing and jaw clenched; he places his tongue in between his teeth because he's afraid he might crack one under the pressure. " _She sounds great."_ She was, is, but he doesn't need to be told because he _knows._ Katsuki shrugs. " _She's just another customer."_

" _You sure about that, man?"_

Was he? He thinks of her and remembers everything; of how her skin flushed under chagrin and of how her body tensed with determination—passionate because _I'm going to prove them wrong_. He thinks of how her arm gripped tightly onto him in her duress and of her pride if only because she faced her fear head on, his help or not. He thinks of how she trembled beneath his touch.

 _No, I'm not fucking sure_ , but he's going to keep playing it off like he is. " _A word of this leaves this shop and I know whose ass to kick, got that?"_ Katsuki glances at Mina, eyes hardened, " _that means you too Pinkie!"_ He knows she is listening, has been because she's _always_ is and he for once he doesn't at all mind despite how his temper reignites when she laughs. It still doesn't stop him from groaning. " _Don't you have clients to drag in here?"_

" _Don't you have tattoos to do?"_

 _Well, she's not wrong_ , a firm reminder resonating in a series of bells as his next body walks through the door. When Eijirou leaves him for his own station to prep, he places a firm hand on his shoulder, a knowing look in his eyes. Katsuki doesn't deny the comfort that comes from the simple gesture, the reassuring feeling that he's in fact not going bat shit crazy and that every emotion assaulting him silently is otherwise normal—he'd rather void himself of all emotions if it means sparing the feeling clawing at his chest, but then he'd void his feelings for her and that, to him, is unacceptable.

His eyes linger towards the clock; _four hours and three minutes_ and no closer to dealing with the fact that she's gone _._ He finishes his sketch just as his client reaches his table and preps his equipment by the time he lays across the surface. When the gun hums to life he finds himself lost in the white noise it provides, his focus redirected and his mind at ease. It's a much needed distraction that he welcomes wholly. " _We still on for tonight, Baku?"_ Eijirou's voice is barely heard over the hum of the needle, his words taking a minute to reach Katsuki's ears. " _Yeah,"_ he stops midline, " _those idiots comin'?"_

" _Right after class."_ Katsuki grins, _good._

xXx

He's not surprised when the door to his apartment is unlocked, even less when every light between the entrance and the kitchen is on; there are only four people who know where he keeps his spare key and not a whole lot of people who are stupid enough to break in otherwise—he's not the friendliest face with the purest of intentions, or at least that's how he's viewed. " _It's about time you guys got here; we were about to start this shindig without you!"_ He's handed a shot just as he reaches his kitchen; fireball he assumes, knowing how Denki likes his drinks with a little spark and a whole lot of burn.

Katsuki tosses his binder onto the counter, taking the middle stool for his own; one by one they line up across his island and one by one they're handed a shot. He barely notices how they finger through his collection in companionable silence, a past time of theirs as each page is admired before turning to the next. " _Business good, Kacchan?"_ When Izuku asks, he can see the genuine curiosity in his eyes and admiration in his voice. He's proud; of his feats—of him and it makes him feel _good_. Katsuki raises his glass. " _Hell yeah it is."_

In the quiet, his eyes roam towards the time and he can feel Eijirou staring him down; Mina is quick to question just exactly what he's looking at when she catches on, eyes sparkling in mischief and he tears them away, admitting to looking at everything save the damned clock. _Damn it, she's still on my mind_ ; but when he thinks about her (bright and everything that should be in a world that isn't) he finds that despite the teasing he's sure will come, he doesn't mind.

Katsuki brings the glass to his lips, ready to down the liquid in one go and in a burning distraction, because as much as his mind is on her, it shouldn't be—not now, anyway. Instead he pauses, setting it back down. " _Shut it you little shits."_ There's a definite edge of an order to his tone, but its light, no malice behind his words.

" _I'm not one for sentiments so I'm only gonna say this shit once; got it?"_ He has every eye on him and the room is still, unnervingly quiet. Katsuki sighs. " _For years, I've dealt with your asses and for years you've stayed up mine,"_ he swears there's a compliment formulating in his mind somewhere, " _so yeah, thanks for that."_ Katsuki doesn't elaborate, because he doesn't need to.

They all know.

" _This last year has been fucking exhausting; there was a lot of shit we had to go through but finally, we made it."_ When they cheer, he lets them and when they laugh, he smiles. His mind is free of worry and his body free of tension. He raises his glass and without question, they all follow. " _So let's fucking celebrate."_ And they do, unabashedly and with every ounce of energy they possess. " _To Ground Zero; one year in the making and a hell of a lot more to come!"_

The liquid burns as it slides down his throat, his worries and anxiety burning away with it.


	3. Newfound Strength

**A/N:** Yeah, I know. 6ish months. The story kind of got away from me when the artist originally behind the story's concept went radio silent (hope you're doing okay Aloosh-s!) I originally wanted to keep it aligned with their initial idea, but alas, when life gives you lemons, make some dank ass lemonade. ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

* * *

For hours she'd kept herself awake, mulling over the many different ways today could play out. She envisions how she walks towards her friends with her head held high, ink across her collar, bright and bold, and every doubt they had in her fading away much like the redness of her skin. She hears the words that would come out of her mouth—filled with pride, gusto and everything in between. She sees how they are shocked by the ink stained in her skin. She brags of her session, of her will to prove them wrong, and the time she had with the needle, despite her fear of it. They are shocked, they laugh, they move on. Everything is as it was and how it should be.

Only, what's happening now isn't even _remotely_ close to what she pictured it would be.

It's tender when they press their fingers to her skin, raw and irritated, because they don't believe she would actually do it, and therefore think it's fake. When they scratch at it, because _it looks like you just colored it with marker,_ it burns and she pulls away, only for her to be brought closer and scratched at again. They ask about the design, _it's a mix of his idea and mine_ , she says and they laugh because _if you we're gonna go through it, you could have got something less bland._ Their touches hurt, how they poke and prod at the lines and the stars and the area that is redder and redder, but their words hurt more.

 _Is it not enough?_ Ochako questions, newfound confidence dimming under the mercy of their ridicule. Her grip tightens around the books she holds, eyes fallen downcast. _You don't have to follow such ridiculous shit to this extent for your 'friends'._ There is truth in what he said, because she knows she didn't have to. _But I wanted to, so badly, to prove them wrong._ She did, she _has_ , and for what? _If I don't go through with it, I'll be at the mercy of their teasing; they'll say I'm weak, that I'm fragile._ When she looks at them, doubled over with mirth and pity (if only in the way they cover their mouths when they speak), she sees how they say it anyway. The teasing is there, only worse. She idly muses if it would have lessened had she just given up to begin with.

Ochako watches in the corner of her eye another finger reaching for her, nothing gentle in the way they quickly close the distance between them. _I wouldn't keep those fuckers close if I were you._ And when she remembers his words, the truth and power behind them, scarred in the mark he leaves from his needles (and his) touch, her confidence is back and it burns.

They never reach her skin.

Ochako holds onto the wrist tightly as it hovers over her tattoo, meeting their questioning glance with a hardened stare, glossed over in tears despite her anger. She squeezes when they struggle and tosses their hand aside when they stumble back, not quite understanding why their skin is so warm when they're so cold. _"This isn't bland."_ She wills her voice to keep strong, even as their words ring in her head, continuing to sting. _"It's m—"_ her voice will crack, so she doesn't continue. Pivoting on her heel, Ochako walks away, leaving behind their calls of her name.

She reaches for her collar, fingering the skin beneath it, tracing the lines she cannot see. _It's my strength,_ and she repeats it until she reminds herself of the truths behind it.

Because it was—is. It's a sign, raised and angry, of her fears now vanquished. With every prick, a touch of strength given to her by someone who, to her, has an endless supply. _The strength I should have found in them, my friends,_ Ochako muses. Despite the tear that falls along her cheek, a smile falls onto her lips, small and subtle. There's a friend in him, at the very least; she knows it. Because as her hand falls to her side, the lines etched into her mind by the trace of her finger, she knows there's no way, _no way_ , that he would have done for her what he did if he wasn't (though admittedly, she believes he didn't exactly mean to).

With at least one friend in her arsenal, she doesn't mind losing a few who never seemed to be. There would be more to come and it is by this thought alone that she can force the tears away as she makes her way across the campus courtyard, forgetful of what's behind her and ignorant of what's in front of her.

At least until she runs into someone.

 _"Oh, I'm so_ — _"_ She can't finish her sentence, eyes not on whom it was she collided, but instead on who stands next to him, eyes bright and laced with a bit of what she recognizes as amusement (if his smothered laughter is anything to go by). Her eyes snap forward, red painting her cheeks. _"Sorry, uh_ — _"_ She draws out her curiosity, unaware of who exactly she bumped into, focusing entirely too hard on not peeking over at the green haired boy next to him. " _Eijirou."_ He chuckles, straightening his shirt and reaching for her books, toppled on top of another in between them.

 _"Sorry, Eijirou,"_ she rolls the name over in her mind, _"I'm a bit scatterbrained this morning."_ She takes them with a thanks when he hands them to her. _"We can tell."_ Just like that, tears well in her eyes and she can do nothing to stop them. They panic. _"Woah, hey now Ochako, no need for that! It was an accident."_ She can hear the concern and see in the corner of her eyes the way Izuku flails about, and she laughs—albeit dry when it comes out. _He's just too cute._

 _"Want to talk about it?"_ Eijirou is careful in the way he asks, knowing their relationship (nonexistent save now) gives no room for her to have to speak to him, but offers anyway. _"No,"_ not that she doesn't appreciate the way he gives her an ear, but more just doesn't want to relive it, _"not really."_ He doesn't push the matter and she's silently thankful because once dealt with is more than she wanted to begin with. _"Are you sure?"_ Ochako smiles. _"Yeah, I'm sure."_

 _Because this has helped more than enough._

 _"Well, headed anywhere in particular?"_

Ochako thinks on his question, and stops herself when her subconscious tries to answer. _To meet my friends,_ is what she would say, once without a single thought, but then she remembers she's not, because she'll be damned if she does. _"Not really,"_ she sighs, but forces a smile anyway, _"I'm on my lunch hour and I was going to meet up with some people but—"_ she doesn't bother finishing the sentence. By the looks on their face, saddened and on the verge of pity, it seems she doesn't have to anyway because they get it. _"So why not lunch with us?"_ She wonders briefly if Izuku can see the shock on her face, because she _knows_ it's there (coupled with pinker cheeks, she's sure but if he notices, he doesn't say anything). _"We're going to meet a friend anyway and you know what they say; the more the merrier."_

Ochako doesn't even try to cover up the unfiltered joy that leaks into the way she answers. _"Are you sure?"_ Because they've talked to her all of what? Five minutes, and they've treated her better than those she's known for years. A part of her thinks it may be pity, having seen it in their eyes at one point. _"I don't want to impose—"_

 _"Nonsense, it'll be fun!"_ Eijirou is bright when he answers, excited even and there is no trace of anything other than genuine fondness in either of them. _"Besides, you look like you could use a friend,"_ he scratches the back of his head, nervous, _"or two."_

 _You don't know how right you are_ , she thinks.

Ochako hesitates to answer, gripping her books tightly to her chest. There's a chance presented to her; for friends worthy of her—friends who, in her eyes if only for this moment, seem to care of about what she is okay with, what she wants, what makes her comfortable. She sees it in the way they ask, how they offer and don't push, give but don't take. If nothing else, the thought is there and oh, how she appreciates it.

She could say no, be on her way and there wouldn't be the faintest hint ill will left behind, of this she's sure because they are too bright, too pure, too understanding. They'd let her go if she asked, and she knows they would. _But do I want to?_ And when she looks to Izuku, an afterthought arises _will I get another chance like this?_ She thinks back to his advice, of how she should cull the toxicity and, in so many words, go on and face the world with her head held high. But when she falls, and she knows she will, who will be there to catch her?

The faintest of smiles finds her lips.

 _"You know what? I'd love to, if you don't mind."_

His arm falls over her shoulder and she finds she's comfortable, doesn't shy away and is warmed by his smile. She laughs easily around him, them, and she doesn't care how her cheeks burn when Izuku comes to her side, a smile all his own and one that could easily stop the world from spinning. Or maybe just her world, she muses. _"Not at all!"_

 _This,_ she thinks, _this is what friends should feel like._

xXx

The bell sounds above the door, and just as always (and more often than he'd like to admit) Katsuki looks to it with high hopes. Another face, another body but not the one he wants to see. He ignores the frequent stares he receives, busying himself with the ink in his hand and the arm on his table and when they just don't let up, he tries to hold it together.

 _Don't give them the satisfaction._ Their eyes burn into the back of him, and he can just feel the shit eating grins he knows they have. _Don't fucking do it._ His hand grips his gun tighter, a poor attempt to stifle his rising anger and not take it out on the arm that's in front of him. _They're idiots, don't give in; you're better than this_ and he wills his composure to remain in tact. They stare harder.

 _"For fucks sake, what?"_

Naturally, he fails.

 _"Oh nothing, nothing."_ The chime in her voice is all too suspicious, all too remnant of the same bell that pulls at him every time it sounds and it serves to only irritate him more. He huffs, choosing to finish with the task in front of him, saving his wrath for later. The stares never stop, and the sniggering that accompanies it becomes more than he thinks he can handle, but he does.

It is the longest hour of his life.

Mina's laughter is the first to break the sudden silence that falls upon them once the shop is clear. Katsuki falls back in his chair, seething, and when he finally can't take it his pencil snaps. He stares at it, a silent mourning before he grabs another. _"Fucking, what."_ Because, he thinks, if she has anything of importance to say, she needs to fucking say it. Pencils are at stake here, alongside his sanity. Eijirou chuckles and he all but loses it. _"Et tu, shitty hair?"_

 _"It's been almost a year,"_ he begins, the remnants of his laughter still alive and thriving, _"by now I doubt she's coming back, so why not give it up?"_ It takes him no more than two seconds to put it all together and he groans, because _of fucking course_ it's this shit again. He doesn't stop his eyes from lingering towards the door—clearly there's no point to, anyway, but he damns the longing he knows rents the space because it means they can see it too.

It's the same question he's been burdened with for the same year he questions, and like every time he's asked, he never has an answer. _It's not that easy,_ he says once, _it's fucking complicated, okay,_ he says, too. Soon, he stops answering all together because even he just can't. What is there to say, anyway?

That he remembers her so god damn vividly? How brown silk frames her face, round and pink and full of unabashed wonder? How in her prime her fear long since vanishes and a playful mirth that mirrors his own (though significantly less sarcastic) takes its place? How she was scared shitless and still managed to endure, a fire in her eyes that burned and he still has the scar to prove it? How despite it all, he's knows it wasn't enough to warrant a second visit, or a third, or a fourth even though he so desperately wishes it was. Luck is never on his side, he knows, and it's not because of him that she'd come back; for his skill behind the inked needle that's undoubtedly attached to him sure, but not just because of _him_.

A sensible conclusion, he thinks, no matter how much it sucks.

Still, he is hopeful with every sound of the bell that chimes and every creak of the door that sounds, that she will walk into his life again, scared shitless and empowered all at the same time. _"It's been a fucking year, when are YOU gonna give up questioning me?"_ Eijirou laughs and it's somehow more annoying than before. His hands race to his head and grips his hair, tired and defeated. His eyes linger to the draw at his side, where the design still lays, on his mind more often than it should be. _Would love to see what it looks like now,_ he muses.

 _"When you stop moping around like a kicked puppy—"_ and Eijirou is narrowly missed by the closest thing Katsuki has on his desk as he makes his way through the front door, Mina's laughter roaring in the background. _"Why do I fucking put up with you assholes?"_ He doesn't expect an answer because he _knows_ why, but still a firm reminder is needed now and again. _"All you assholes do is fuck around,"_ Katsuki spins in his chair, eyes closed, venting, _"can't take shit seriously."_ Neither can he, if he's honest, but semantics.

Mina whispers his name, but he doesn't hear her. _"Can't even catch a break with you two—"_ The bell above the door rings, and for the first time in a long time, it goes ignored. _"Keep bringing that shit up because it gets you off—"_ She says it again, this time louder, and its drowned out by the sound of him falling to his desk, exasperated. _"Couldn't even forget her if I—"_

 _"Katsuki!"_

He stops mid word, paralyzed in shock, because since when the fuck does Mina call him _that?_ Sure, she knows his first name, but he's always been his last to her. So, as his mind processes just what exactly she called him, he takes a deep breath. _"What in the fu—"_

 _"Who are we trying to forget about?"_

He doesn't miss the curiosity in her voice, or the way her head tilts to the side, questioning. He doesn't miss how her lips quirk up in the corner, as if she knows he was talking about _her_ , and he doesn't remember if he said anything that gave away just how fucking right she would be. He doesn't miss how Mina stands to the side, just as shocked as he, though more alive because there is such amusement in her eyes that he thinks she might burst from it. _Would serve her right in any case._ He doesn't miss how both of them wait, patiently, for him to say something, _anything,_ and he doesn't fault himself when he just _can't._

He's hard pressed to remember how to breathe because she's there, standing in front of him, just as he remembers. Words are fleeting on his tongue, and in an act of solidarity (or to get him to function like a human being, he's inclined to believe) Mina manages to answer for him. _"Oh, we were giving him a hard time about this client a few times back,"_ she covers her mouth with her hand to whisper, _"left one hell of a lasting impression on him."_

 _Why don't you just fucking announce it to the world, Pinkie,_ he groans half heartedly and thanks, for once, his tongue for being tied.

Ochako hums, accepting the answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and makes her way into the shop. _"What're you doing here?"_ When he finds his voice it doesn't sound like him; it's breathless, in awe, with a hint of doubt because he hears her but also think it's his mind playing a dirty trick. She can't tell, or if she can doesn't say anything but he can, and when she chuckles, he has to grip the sides of his desk to keep him grounded. _"Well, what else does someone come into a tattoo shop for?"_ He raises one brow, and she buckles.

 _"I have a habit of coming in without an appointment,"_ she begins picking at her fingers and staring holes into the ground, _"and I know it's late and you're about to close up shop, but I…"_ She peeks up towards him, embarrassed he thinks because of how she curls in on herself a bit, cheeks pinker than he ever remembers them capable of, and rushes the last few words out of her mouth. _"Idon'ttrustanyoneelsetogivemeatattoo."_

He's on fire.

His cheeks are going to combust, he's _sure_ of it.

He's thankful that Mina abandons her usual need to tease him endlessly, knowing it was on the tip of her tongue just by the way she _looked_ at him; he's not sure, in that moment, he would have survived it. _"I'm not sure how much you could get done this late, Ochako,"_ Mina says, reaching for some abandoned papers on her desk, _"but I could pencil you in first thing in the morning, that way—"_

 _"I'll stay behind."_

He says it so matter of fact, as if it was the most obvious choice and he's not at all surprised when Mina gives him a sideways look, a knowing smile all but the size of a billboard because _oh, will you now?_ Katsuki ignores her with nothing less than the patience of a saint, and rolls his eyes. _"What? Not like I had plans tonight anyway."_ Which he did, Mina knew he did, but they would understand and she didn't need to know that. If they didn't? _Well, they'll get the fuck over it._

 _"Are you sure?"_ Of course he was sure, because standing in the flesh was the object of his mildly annoying infatuation that, for nearly a year, was nothing more than a wish on a fleeting star and a figment of his imagination, twinkling sound of a door bell included. She was there, in front of him, breathing, smiling, round face and pink cheeks and no fucking way was he letting her walk out that door on the off chance she'd come back the next morning.

Katsuki reaches for his desk drawer, pulling from it a familiar slip and beckons her over. _"Yeah, I'm sure."_ He curses just how pathetic he sounds. _"Well, if you're sure,"_ He can almost taste the smug that colours Mina's voice, eerily chipper and eager, _"make sure our_ ** _favourite_** _client gets home safe now."_ And there's the shit eating grin, larger than a billboard. _"Shut the fuck up and go home already, Pinkie,"_ and as a karmic afterthought, because fuck, was she getting annoying, _"don't you have someone to go drool over? Rhymes with shitty hair?"_

The look on her face is priceless.

Mina sputters, face as red as his, probably. He doesn't dare look, not at all sure he could keep a straight face with the incoherent babbling that falls from her lips like word vomit. He hears Ochako chuckle; clearly she sees what she cannot and apparently, it's worth the way she tries to hide her laughter behind her hand _"Whatever asshole, I'll see you tomorrow."_ There's no real bite behind her words, but a distinct _we'll talk about this tomorrow,_ or more, _I'm going to interrogate you until your head explodes_ and suddenly he thinks he might call off.

 _"Any idea of what you want? Or are we going back to drooling baby faces with snot?"_ Katsuki holds up their drawings from her session before, and watches how her face goes through the five stages of grief. _"Oh god, you kept that?"_

 _It's the only thing I had left of you,_ is what he wants to say but doesn't. Instead, he finds whatever chill he once had and smirks because it's fine. Everything is fine. _"It's some damn good inspiration, of course I kept it."_ Well, he's not wrong, sort of. It was mainly a threat used against Pinkie and Shitty Hair, a _I swear to god if you don't want to wake up with THIS on your skin, you better fucking quit_ promise _,_ but still. When she laughs breathlessly, he all but melts.

Abort mission. Everything is _not_ fine.

 _"No, I actually have something in mind this time, promise."_ She bares her wrist to him, blank and waiting. _"It's real small and simple, and that's why I figured, well…"_ she shakes her head and he's entranced by how her hair flows seamlessly with her, _"anyway, just an I this time."_ Katsuki snorts, figuring she didn't mean a literal eye but asking the question with his amused expression nonetheless. _"Not a literal eye,"_ she whines and he snorts again. He wants to know, almost asks why an I, but figured she has a reason. _"Yeah, probably won't take long at all."_ Because why would luck have it that she stays at his table for longer than ten minutes, stays with _him_ longer.

He grabs her wrist, gentle and careful, and he hopes he doesn't imagine the way she sucks in a small breathe, how her eyes fall to their hands and drag back to him. His thumb rubs over her skin; it's soft like he remembers and he feels beneath his hold how her skin raises. He fights the smile that threatens to break because he's damn near delighted to know with every what she affects him that he affects her even the tiniest bit.

When he lets her go, he misses contact almost instantly and instead focuses on readying the ink. _"Black I take it?"_ She only nods, still staring, lips faintly parted. He tests out the needle, the repetitive buzz enough to break the dead silence between them. _"So,"_ he tries, because it's still too damn quiet, _"still scared shitless of needles?"_

He reaches for her wrist again, presses the gun to her skin and she doesn't flinch. _Well shit, that's new._ The grin on her face screams confidence and sass and _fuck_ , if it's not the hottest thing he's seen all day. _"Oh Katsuki, many things have changed over the last year."_

 _"No shit."_

When she laughs, he can't help but chuckle along with her, and busies himself with the rest of the preparations. _"I'm still scared of needles, don't get me wrong. It's just less terrifying when it's you."_

He nearly drops the ink.

How he keeps his composure, not even he could tell, and is so, so glad they were alone because he can already hear the teasing he'd endure. _"I took your advice, by the way,"_ she starts, and he glances over at her briefly, _"I left behind those friends from before."_ She rests her head against her free hand, eyes tracing over their sketch paper that lay abandoned on the corner. _"I proved them wrong and still it wasn't enough. They had the nerve to tease not only me, but this too—"_ Ochako casually moves her shirts collar from her neckline and he sees it. Bright, bold, just as he remembers and still as perfect on her as the first day he drew it.

He wants to reach for it, itches to feel the ink or her collar beneath his fingers he's not entirely sure (though thinks without a doubt it's the latter) and with the restraint of nothing less than a saint decides against it. Then he processes what she said. _"Those bitches."_ Because how dare they, in any case. Tease about the tattoo, fine, sure, whatever—that's just ink in the end. But to tease her?

Bitches was the understatement of the year.

 _"Yeah, but it's fine; I handled it. You'd have been proud actually."_ Something in the way her eyes narrow tells him he would indeed be proud—hell, he was already, but he adds that to the list of things she doesn't need to know. Katsuki reaches for her wrist again, pressing the needle to her arm and letting his calm come back. _"I made friends too."_ It comes as an afterthought, he thinks, because when he glances to her, she's lost in the way he draws against her skin. _"They better be fucking decent."_ He clicks his tongue when he crosses the last of the I. _That took no fucking time at all._

He hides his disappointment in his clean up, which too, takes no time at all. _"Well, you're more than decent, so I think I did good,"_ she smiles at him so openly as she watches him, and he hopes the shock that is so clearly on his face doesn't come across as anything other than what it is—elation, fuck yeah elation, but shock. _"They're awesome too, though."_

 _That's great and all_ , he muses, but _"I'm your—"_ damnit, why were words so fucking hard around her? She tilts her head to the side, watching him with confusion in her eyes and he only stares back, his heart pounding, the traitorous thing. _"Of course?"_ She says it as if it was obvious from the start, how despite having been gone for nearly a year with only one encounter tucked under their belt, she thought of him as more than just an artist with a service, but someone who gave her advice, helped her face her fear, made her comfortable, listened—all things a friend does, is supposed to do.

He coats her raised skin in ointment before covering it, mind whirling and still fried. But there's a smile, small at first but oh, how it grows. _"Yeah, of course."_ It comes out soft, vulnerable and he doesn't care. His fingers linger with purpose and without, only breaking away when she looks to him, full of something he can't pick apart. Her smile never leaves, and neither does his.

 _"Come on, Round Face,"_ he reaches for his bag after everything is said and done, cleaned and set for the next day. He takes their paper and places it back in his drawer, ignoring how she watches him with amusement, the look in his eyes screaming _fuck yeah, I'm keeping it_ and the small voice in his heart faltering because _I don't know when I'll see you again. "I promised Pinkie I'd make sure our favourite client got home safe."_ Mockery (and truth) of her words—not his aside, he did after all, but more importantly, he was going to stretch this night as for as long as he could.

 _"That you did."_ Ochako stretches when she gets up and follows him to the door just as he clicks the lights off. When he opens it, she stops. _"Thanks, Katsuki. For everything."_ For a moment she rests her head against his shoulder and almost immediately after, though still longer than necessary, she pulls away and walks through the door, stopping when he doesn't follow and waiting as he stand paralysed.

Because he still thinks he's dreaming, still thinks this is some sick trick his mind is playing on him because it's been a year—a year where her laughter would ring in his ears and a year he couldn't find the source, a year where all he could see is her even when there's was no _her_ to see. He almost wants to ask if she's real, but then remembers her wrist and how the heat rose beneath his fingers, how her breathing hitched when he held her and how her skin rose under his touch. _"Hey, you coming?"_ She questions, and it's only then he snaps out of his daze.

Because it was an all to real reminder that, for once, this wasn't a trick his mind decided to play. And even if, in the end, it was for another stain in ink and not just for him, she was there, in front of him.

She came back.

Damn the reason why.


	4. Sheer Coincidences

**A/N:** _I've been apparently ripping out hearts with my other story Radio Silence so here, have some cavity enducing, sweet tooth floof in which Katsuki is often the butt of every joke._ **  
**

* * *

"You _swept her off her feet."_ Silence.

 _"You took her to dinner."_ More silence.

 _"You confessed your undying infatuation with her."_ Seriously?

He's lost track of just how long she's been at it, grinding away at his defenses in search of answers behind exactly what happened when she left him to his devices with none other than _her_ by his side. He curses whatever look that must have been plastered on his face, erasing what they've come to known as the Resting Bakugou Face™ that he wears each and every morning because it's only when she walked in with him as he opened the shop that this shit started. Her laughter comes as easily as his groan, and he starts to think that his anguish is something she enjoys a little _too_ much.

His head finds his desk a lot quicker than he intends, a pulsing throb that beats against his skull near more of an annoyance than her, but when he remembers flush cheeks, gleeful mirth, a peek of chocolate through squinted eyes and what sounds more like bells than her laughter, it dulls almost instantly. He sees nothing but his hands when he lifts his head from his desk, every line, every divot and even though the feeling has long since passed, he swears the warmth of her skin is burned into his own. He smiles, small but wholly, ignoring how Mina's laughter stops the second he does and focuses more on what he remembers _—_ how silk feels against him when he tussles her hair, how much unseen power lies behind her palm when it crosses his shoulder, how her eyes shine even in the dark and when they look at _him_.

 _"Oh my god,"_ there is a distinct disbelief in her voice, _"you kissed her!"_

 _No, but I fucking wish I did._

 _"Give it a rest, Pinkie,"_ he hopes she can hear the annoyance because boy is it fucking there, _"None of that shit happened. Walked her to the bus stop, that's it."_ She doesn't look like she buys it, the way her brow raises and her lips curl suspiciously so, and he's spent. _"Do I look like the type of sap to do any of that shit?"_ He would for her, he thinks, but decides not to open that can of whoop ass that would be waiting for him the minute he let that slip, varying degrees of teasing notwithstanding. _"You're not you when you're with her, so the jury's out."_

Apparently, he didn't need to fucking say it.

When Eijirou barges in, deja vu hits him with the subtlety of a freight train and he forgets his urgency. There are many things he has encountered, many things that would turn him around and have him exiting quicker than he walked in. He's used to this, used to them and everything that comes with it. What he sees as he stands in the shops threshold is not unlike what he sees on any given day—Mina giving Katsuki shit about something or another, Katsuki retaliating with virtually everything that littered his desk (shitty aim, but it's also not like he's actually _trying_ ); It's normal, or at least, as close to normal as they are capable of. Only there's something different about today.

 _"What's going on?"_ He didn't come in for this; in trust, there was something that caught his eye and had his feet running the minute he yanked the flyer from the pole. Even as the reason is held tightly in his first, he's suddenly more interested in what the hell has Katsuki so, so…

Well is there even a word for it anymore?

 _"Oh, nothing. Bakugou's dream girl came in shortly after left us all."_ Eijirou stands, shocked, from both how Mina just casually drops the bomb that he's missed the elusive topic of their teasing for the _second_ time and by the way Katsuki sputters, babbling incoherently before a string of curses falls from his mouth in the same way they would any given day. _"Oh come on!"_ Eijirou sulks his way to his desk, slouching immediately, _"how come I miss all the good shit?"_ He is brought back to life the moment he realizes there's a story to tell and by the way Mina is absolutely giddy at the idea, it's a good one.

The wheels of his chair squeak harshly when they slide towards him, and Katsuki already fears the last of his thinly held together sanity will all but snap. _"So,"_ Eijirou drawls, and the only escape he finds is his head to his desk again, _"what did you two do last night?"_ It comes off more suggestive than it really was, which made the way Katsuki reacted all the more enjoyable. He launches from his desk, cheeks pink (no matter how profusely he denies it) and finds temporary sanctuary behind the threshold of the office that sits behind him, locked and isolated.

At least he would have, had his next client not walked through the door.

She doesn't make it two steps in the door before they flock to her like a moth to a flame. _"Jirou, you're not gonna believe this!"_ And they're off, words falling at a speed he can barely keep up with and he doesn't know how she understands a word they say, with how fast they say it. _"Oi, give me my damn client you little shits!"_ When they finish, they're gasping for air and Katsuki snorts. _Serves those fuckers right._ He takes his time getting his station prepared, knowing exactly what he will be using and just how much and when she sits, he feels her staring, hard.

 _"What?"_ Stare. His fingers close tightly around the bottle of ink in hand and he doesn't know what he can't stand more-the fact that they know, the little traitorous shits they are, or that _she_ knows, because she says nothing as she bores into him, silent and judging. _Whatever,_ he sighs and offers his hand, delighted when she understands because it means he can get to work and leave this shit behind him.

It's a quiet session, one he's not used to but is thankful for. Her line of sight hasn't left him, he knows because he can feel it, but it doesn't matter because the hum of his gun and the music in the background has him all but lost in his mind, in his work and his design. Katsuki draws a swirl and he's reminded of the curve in her smile, he draws a star and is reminded of how her eyes shine under the moon. He smiles, small, unnoticeable, but there and only when he catches it growing does he thin it back out, a line drawn and he focuses on black ink and notes again. He thinks he's gotten away with it.

And then she speaks.

 _"You're different."_ Insulted, but…

 _"The fuck you mean?"_ Curious.

Because he sees it too, and knows that anyone who knows him can easily pick out the difference in how he is compared to how he was. _"You've chilled out,"_ that's one way of putting it, he assumes, _"I was wondering what did it; what had you brushing off the little things that normally set you ablaze, thinking before you spoke,"_ she raises her free hand in defense when he shoots her a look, _"relatively speaking anyway."_ Fair, he decides and wonders briefly if she really had this much to do with whatever difference they see in him. _"Still, the most impressive difference is this—"_

Her finger pokes him in the corner of his lip and he feels where it was curved not even a second before. _When the fuck did I start smiling again?_ Katsuki swats her hand away, rolling his eyes and ignoring her shit eating grin while busying him with her arm because he is _not_ having this conversation again god damnit. He refuses to look at her even as he chuckles, contemplating just how much revenge he's willing to get—there's a whole arm of hers left in his mercy and he _could…_

But his name is worth much more so he just takes it instead. _Damn reputation_.

 _"I'm not going to give you shit like them,"_ she sighs, not with defeat but in recognition because he knows he wears his fury on his sleeve, _"it's much too easy to get away with now, anyway."_

 _Just one slip, that's all it'd take._ Give her a damn 'S' instead of a treble clef.

 _"Besides,"_ he thinks she's preparing for the kill and the string of curses that line up at his tongue are ready to fall but when he looks to her, he doesn't let them, _"it's good for you—whatever"_ she gestures vaguely, " _this is."_ There's no thrill of poking fun at his expense, there's no sarcasm, mirth or anything other than genuine surprise and support. Katsuki breathes, finally and the tension built up in his muscles releases with his exhale. _"They took the fun out of teasing, anyway."_

 _"For fucks sake Jirou, couldn't let me have it could you?"_

Of course she couldn't, he didn't expect her to (or the little shits still giggling in their corners for that matter) but he can't deny that her words ring true as his mind repeats them and for that he lets her be even when she laughs.

Katsuki doesn't get his hopes up, he knows better than that—too many supposed truths turned lies, too many doors that slam shut in his face and he knows this is building up to another dire situation in which he will almost certainly lose, but he lets himself dream because it's all he has left. So he loses himself in the way his hands do what they do best, and he thinks of her with each line he draws because, in some off handed way, the curved lines of every design thereafter will always remind him of her. She serves as a light that illuminates his darkness, if only in times of her choosing and for her, he'd soak every bit of ray she would generously give him.

He smiles, and this time, no one says a word.

xXx

Two o'clock rolls around as he finishes his last series of lines. The shop is empty save Jirou, as it usually is on a Sunday afternoon, the soft vibes of the music louder as it pierces the otherwise qui—Eijirou slams his hand onto his desk, beneath it a single sheet of paper after a resounding _fuck_ echoes off the walls. Mina yelps, dropping the folder in her hand and Katsuki curses, barely catching the bottle of ink that damn near slipped from his fingers.

So much for silence.

Jirou remains unaffected and he is impressed by her sheer fortitude against sound (then again, rock bands will do that to you). _"What the whole ass—"_ and then he sees the paper with a logo that looks suspiciously familiar, _"the hell is this?"_ He knows what it is, in the far recesses of his brain, but he looks for confirmation because _is it THAT time already?_ One look at Eijirou's smirk says all he needs to know. _"You know what it is; you competing?"_ Katsuki deadpans, as if shook that he _didn't_ already know the answer to what he wagers is the stupidest question to date. _Of fucking course I am?_

He does every year, after all and he'll be damned if the title is lost to him because of something as trivial as attendance. He snatches the paper from under his fingers and scans it, taking in the same information he knows like the back of his hand, and the stuff he doesn't.

Hell City Tattoo Fest, and what a fucking time it is.

A Battle Royale only with ink stains, needled guns and some of the most wicked designs from some of the most wicked minds—his included and he's damn proud of it. Preliminaries are uneventful, a few days max and when done there is twelve artists that remain _—_ twelve who are worth their weight in ink and that can stand toe to toe with the best. Bracketed out into six pairs to start, they are left with three days' worth of creative reign within instrumented guidelines, red skin, curses aplenty, varying shades of color and lines and shapes redesigned and redefined until there are three sole artists who are above all else.

Then the real fun begins.

They have control after near a week without it and they take full advantage. They choose their model, they choose their prompt and for three days, they lose themselves in their trade _—_ no rules, just art. At least, until they are at the mercy of the panel who judges them and their chosen work. Katsuki shudders, recalling just how vicious they can be and though it's to be expected, it doesn't make it any easier to deal with. It's a messy fight, both in medium and in general, horror stories deriving from past competitions of manipulation and sabotage notwithstanding, but a battle he will _always_ be ready to fight.

Katsuki pins the flyer to the board littered with various reminders, old posters, and other bullshit he should really clean off and leans against his desk, admiring the brazen letters that spell out their prize. It's larger than previous years he notes and he swears it'll be his, theirs.

 _"You think they will be there?"_ The question doesn't hold the normal bounce his words tend to have for good reason. _They_ are always a sore subject in the shop, and just in general if Katsuki's honest. _"Probably,"_ because if the bragging rights, showboating and the overall bullshit these competitions have to offer doesn't reel them in like a fish to bait, that damn prize will. Katsuki grips the end of his desk and fears it'll crack; with them going, anything could happen. He recalls a year where Eijirou's chance suffered at their hands and he knows the worry stems from it even still.

 _"You have something in mind?_ " Eyes are on him as the gears in his head turn. _It has to be big this year,_ redemption for Ground Zero despite their victory in the end, for shitty hair despite how he rose above it and any opportunity to rub _his_ charred face in another defeat by his hand, ink based or otherwise, is an opportunity too good to pass up.

 _"Of course."_

He doesn't, not yet any, but he doesn't need to know that.

Eijirou laughs and that makes the blatant lie worth it. _"Sure you do."_ Maybe he's more easily read than he thinks, swatting his hand away when he nudges against his arm. _"It'll come to me, Shitty Hair."_ And it will, because it always does.

 _"I'm not worried,"_ Mina's grin is infectious if nothing else, _"Bakugou would never let someone take the title from him without a hell of a fight."_ She's not wrong; he'll scrape together a win by tooth and nail if he damn well has to because the feeling that comes with a victory absolute, when defeat follows him no matter how fast he runs means more to him than the material attachment that comes with it.

It's the proof that he is capable of something great, even when by all other reason (and reasons with no backing, he adds with enough acidic venom to melt a surface) he is thought to be worth nothing more than failure. It's the one time a year he can go in front of the world, strut his shit, toss both middle fingers in the air and tell everyone who ever doubted him exactly where they can shove it.

He'll be damned if that's taken away from him.

When the time comes, they send Jirou off with a wave, freshly inked and protected by clear wrapping that spans the length of her arm, watching until she's safely to her car and all but speeding off with the promise of a visit in the near future. Eijirou doubles back, nearly taking his desk down with him. _"Where're you off to in a hurry?"_ She watches him, amused, and he only answers when his desk is clear and his bag is packed. _"Meeting the guys,"_ he starts, double backing for his keys, _"but I have to pick up a friend first."_

 _"Oh?"_ Her interest is piqued, head tilted to the side, questioning. Katsuki watches in silence, brow rose, because _oh shit. "Yeah,"_ his hand reaches for the back of his neck, off handed, _"she's not familiar with the spot, so I'm taking her."_

 _She?_ Oh shit is right.

Katsuki's eyes flicker from Mina, to Eijirou and back to Mina. She's quiet as she brushes the comment off, unusually so and when she turns to pack her things, he swears he sees an ounce of envy in gold but says nothing. _Now's not the time,_ so he leaves it alone against all better judgement. _"You guys want to come?"_ Eijirou is cautious in the way he asks, eyes trained on her because he notices it too, her quipped silence even as she finds interest in everything but him.

 _"Class."_ Okay then.

 _"Pass,"_ Katsuki spits out, not quite taking his eyes off her, _"gonna hang back for a bit though."_ Or at least, that was the plan before whatever this was started happening. He watches the way Eijirou folds, not quite sure what to say next but wanting to say _something_ because the silence is too loud and it doesn't belong. He says nothing, doesn't even try to pick her apart and Katsuki has a mind to smack him.

 _"Gotcha,"_ there's a brief moment where he rounds his desk and just lingers, debating as her back remains towards him; _"I'll catch you later then."_ He leaves it at that and with a curt nod makes his way out of the shop, downcast and none the wiser as to _why._ He's gone and it's still too damn quiet.

 _"Jealousy doesn't suit you kid."_

She's fiery, righteous, with a wit just as daring as his sometimes but never has she been cold and _fuck_ was it off-putting. Mina tosses a glance over her shoulder. _"I'm not jealous."_ He scoffs and when she glares, he does it again. _"Right,"_ he rolls his eyes as dramatically as physically possible and hopes to god she sees it, _"and your face is twisted to hell for the fun of it."_ Just because Eijirou didn't see it doesn't mean he didn't.

But he _really_ should have seen that paper ball coming.

He gives her the benefit of a spot on mark (because he'll never admit he didn't see it, you can pry that truth from his cold, dead hands) the crinkled piece bouncing off his chest and onto his desk. It takes her by surprise at first that she actually stuck the attack and he sees the way cold eyes and thin lips both widen and part. _"Oh shut up, dick."_ It takes a moment before her lips curl and he finally relaxes when they do. _"Come on, Pinkie,_ " he reaches for her, arm open with invitation and she falls underneath as he walks her to the door.

These moments are far and few—where he lets them win, where he lets them fall apart and where he takes the mantle of strength for them. He doesn't say anything as he walks her to the door but she doesn't expect him too. The way he grips her shoulder and lets her use him as an emotional balance says enough. He is a series of walls, but every now and again he will let one down and give them the chance to climb.

Katsuki tucks her in her car and when she rolls her window down to thank him, he ruffles her hair because the emotions are too damn much today. _"Quit being so damn dramatic,"_ there's a curse on her tongue, he can feel it, _"you know you're the only one for him."_

Well maybe she didn't know, if the way she freezes and her cheeks darken is any indication.

He chuckles when she rolls up her window and laughs when she drives away without so much as a peep, taking in the breeze until he's back in the shop. The building is empty and he revels in the peace, thoughts running much faster than his feet could ever hope to carry him but he makes it to his desk, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper and placing it on top. He has no idea where to start, but he knows, as always, it'll come to him.

xXx

If he wasn't so damn distracted, he'd have remembered to grab his wallet.

He only remembers because he felt like he was forgetting something to begin with and after a run down of necessities, Ochako reminds him of what should have been the top of his list. Eijirou takes a hard right on a street he knows well, headed back for the shop with a promise of a quick visit, to which she doesn't mind and he's thankful.

He can see Katsuki's car right where it always is, sighing in relief because that means he doesn't have to fumble with his keys because the door is still open. Eijirou pulls in to a familiar spot, not quite understanding why her eyes grow wide and the faintest smile twists onto the corner of her lips. When he gets out, she does too; it throws him off but he turns back to grab his keys, saying nothing because it's not really that big a deal—it's a well known shop, he's sure she's heard of it and maybe she's curious. When he makes it to the door, he doesn't expect her to walk in ahead of him as if it's something she's done before.

He leasts expects Katsuki to look as stunned as he does when he finally looks up.

 _"Hello, Katsuki."_

He's just as stunned, if not more than Katsuki is.

 _"You're—you're back?"_ Because after a year of longing for her to appear and she never does, the world decides that he gets all of her for two days back to back. It's a joke, he decides, a figment of his imagination. It _has_ to be. But her smile is all too real, her presence all too familiar and he doesn't care how Eijirou stares at her, then to him, then to her again with a look that he'd otherwise question because _she's really here._ _"Is it so surprising?"_ Actually yes, but he's not going to say that out loud. Instead he laughs, and Eijirou is sure that he's been replaced because _Bakugou does not laugh._

 _"You really have a knack for coming in when shop's closed, don't you Round Face."_

 _"What can I say,"_ her hand finds her hip, _"best things happen after hours."_

 _Holy fuck, he's red._

He's no longer in the room, at least not to them, and he takes their distraction as opportunity to figure out just what the hell is going on. Katsuki's answers come light, airy, near breathless when Ochako speaks and she's comfortable around him he notices, odd in itself for many reasons—it takes him and Izuku four times the amount of time it takes him to get her to feel like she does now and Katsuki is not the easiest person to deal with, to handle, to understand.

His side steps them to his desk, watching carefully. Katsuki is relaxed in his chair, full attention on her and whatever it is she's saying. They're soft, his eyes, hopeful he decides and looking at her in a way he's never seen. There isn't the same strain in her voice he has come to know when she speaks with someone outside of their trio, the same hesitance that comes with someone who is almost afraid to trust.

Katsuki reaches for his desk as her head tilts in laughter and pulls something from his drawer. It takes Eijirou a moment of strained eyesight to see just what it is—a paper with less than admirable, but still utterly Katsuki's, drawings and doodles. Something rings familiar in his head as he watches her reach for it, not missing the way the blonde holds his breath when their fingers touch, the way her eyes fly to his because she noticed it to, the way her hand lingers before she takes it away and studies the page, laughter filling her once again and how his smile is lazy and so full of everything it never is.

Wait. _Wait._

His arms wave frantically behind her back, catching Katsuki's attention instantly. _Do I ask out loud?_ He hasn't thought this far ahead, the realisation too big a bomb drop to have planned for. Katsuki waits, brows furrowed, eyes back to her when she prompts and back to him when she looks away. Eijirou points sharply at her back, and he fears if he were closer he'd have shot straight through her. _Is this her?!_ He hopes he's read, because the words fall silently from his lips at a speed he doesn't think could be caught.

But it has, and he was _red._

 _Not a fucking word,_ is what he wants to say but can't, but how Eijirou shoots his hand up in surrender, he knows his eyes say it for him plenty. He's too fucking giddy in how he prances around silently in confirmation that he's finally met The Girl™, Ochako none the wiser and Katsuki reaches for something, _anything,_ out of instinct because it's all but muscle memory at this point—his way to fend off the teasing and the indignation that'll soon follow after.

But he chills out, reaching for Ochako's shoulder when he looks at the clock nearby and remembers the time. _"Hey, were gonna be late,"_ he reminds, feeling guilty when they both look to him, a flash of something passing through both of them he can't quite place—sadness? Or perhap maybe disappointment.

 _"Where're you headed?"_ Katsuki can't stop the question despite how it's none of his business, but he decides it's the only way to placate the worry that comes with the fact that _she_ is the girl he referred to earlier, sending Mina into a fit and that _she_ is the girl, the one who's plagued his thoughts and filled him with dreams, that he's with now.

Eijirou reads him like a book; he places his fist in the air in wait, something they do, have done, to communicate in their own way that _it's okay,_ whatever it is and that they're in their corner, always. It takes a moment, but Katsuki bumps back with his own and Eijirou breathes. _"Izuku and I found out Ochako's never seen the stars on the beach at night, so we decided to meet the guys and make a thing out of it."_ His eyes grow because _wait, Deku fucking knows her too?_

 _"Remember those friends I made because of your advice?"_ He does, fondly because she took what he said to heart and it only clicks after the fact when there's a shit eating grin spread wide across Eijirou's face. _"Guess they are pretty decent after all."_ It's gone, the grin, faded at the jab and Katsuki takes up one of his own. _"More than decent,"_ she pokes him in his chest and he takes it, surefire teasing aside, _"and you're pretty awesome too."_

Right, because he's her friend. She said it herself.

 _"Sure you don't want to come?"_ Eijirou asks again, with a whole new understanding and a whole new level of meddling, Katsuki thinks. But he can't, no matter how much he wants to, because responsibilities and all that shit. _"Pass,"_ and he stares at the blank page on his desk because it's basically taunting him now, _"but you should get Pinkie."_ He stares pointedly at Eijirou until it clicks, because _you need to set the record straight Shitty Hair,_ and Eijirou agrees.

He heads for the doors, Ochako in tow with a destination set. She doesn't cross the threshold immediately even as Eijirou does, instead looks back to him because she saw the blank page on his desk, and somehow knows what is keeping him there, if not for the reason why. _"You know, Katsuki,"_ she starts, eyes drifting to the sky as it begins to fade into the hues of the night, _"if you're looking for inspiration, you can always find them in the stars."_

He's paralysed by the way she looks on, lost in thought and as striking at the first time she walked through those same doors. He's in trouble, he knows it. _"They hold everything after all—hopes, dreams, wishes, wants."_ She looks to him and he can't fucking breathe. _"They could hold the answers to your art block too."_

God damn, was she perceptive.

Katsuki drags his eyes away from her, finding the blank page with ease and suddenly the world spills onto it—lines, shapes, colors, _everything_. When his head snaps back to her, eyes wide she only smiles and walks through the door, away from him but leaving every part of her behind, in his hands.

On that page.


	5. Happenstances

**A/N:** _It's been a long 6 months, and it's only gotten worse. How will I make it out of this one? Barely, if at all. I'll be honest, i'm not doing okay. But thankfully, I seem to be able to write when I'm at my worst? So yeah._

* * *

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you old man."

How could he not? Phone held to his ear in one hand, binder and bag held loosely in the other as he stumbles his way through the front door. It's a wonder how he managed to unlock the thing, let alone get it open but he did and that's all that matters. When inside, Katsuki tosses his bag into the nearest chair, placing his binder across his table, spread open on a specifically marked page. "I'll get the shit in first thing in the mor—" he chooses his next words carefully. "Afternoon."

Because with what he has in store tonight, he plans to sleep in tomorrow god dammit.

He runs his fingers through loose locks, still drawn in by conversation and cringes. First a shower,he thinks. "Yeah, I get it." Something about responsibility, perseverance, and the same spiel he's used to from his old mentor. "Old man," he begins just as another rant forms, "I got this. **We** got this. Now let me take a damn shower already."

In a few moments, he's free. Katsuki syncs his phone to the nearby Echo speaker, and the sound bounces off every wall. He tosses the device clear across the room and it lands on the couch, like he knew it would, getting lost in the rhythm, the beat and the words that flow through the space. He reaches for his shirt, ready to peel it off and feel the scalding hot water caress his skin but he pauses when his eyes cross his design, letting it fall back into place.

Shits still off he realizes as he follows every line, every splash of color, and every point of entry or exit and it still doesn't click. It taunts him, whatever it is that's just not right, keeping him firmly rooted in place while he stares at and through his work. There are times he gets like this—overcritical, melancholic, doubtful of the skill he deep down knows, without a doubt, is his. The piece is beautiful, he knows it is, but it is not good enough. Not by a long shot.

He has a mind to trash it all together.

But he won't scrap the idea, no never because it's her that gave it to him in the first place and byher that he will win, as is or redesigned. Either way, it'll be perfect, it has to be . For his chance at victory. For her.

Katsuki takes the page from its sleeve and sets it against an easel that lingers in the further corner from him and with a tack, pins it to the wood. One step, then two, then three away and he looks to it with a whole new light, cast by the rising moon as it filters in through a curtainless window. The colors change against the pallet and so does his mind—the design stays, colors can change sure, fine, whatever but what the fuck is missing.

He tugs at his hair a bit harder than he should, reminded that he shouldn't be fretting over something he has months to perfect and instead should be taking that damn shower, but he's infuriated by the way the answer that should be there eludes him. Katsuki takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. It's just like at the shop, he muses, a blank canvas toying with him for hours, the idea that balances on the tip of his fingers just short of setting itself free.

But then he thinks of her.

He thinks of how she looked at the same blank page, the same faceless idea and from it a world of swirl, color, line and shape appeared. He thinks of how her eyes dragged from it to the sky, enlightened by the way the colors changed, no rhyme or reason and how she reaches for the stars with thoughts alone.

The stars, that are then clouded by the way the light still burns as it holds on, but rushes past and into the night just as the sun sets. The stars that, in time, twinkle against the pallet, bright in a way only they can be. The stars that shine brighter in her eyes because they are in her eyes when he sees them, that she swears holds everything—hopes, dreams, wishes and wants she says and it's by this reasoning he's inclined to believe.

The stars that cling boldly to her, along her skin, etched by his hand because when he looked at her, blank canvas toying with him the same as the page, it's what he saw in her.

And it hits him-merciless and unrelenting.

Through his paralysis, it knocks him swift off his feet, breath ripped from his lungs and he sees it, because it's as she would. Katsuki all but runs towards a back closet, gathering far past the limit of what he's able to hold onto and rushes back. Metal cans rattle against one another as he drops them, a wide array of colors he's decided to use and when they touch the floor, he hopes to god it doesn't spray before he's ready.

Face mask, canvas, tarp, gloves. Katsuki runs off a mental list and as he sets up he thinks he's ready but not quite, because he sees his window and shit, almost forgot. There's no draft, no breeze, and it's much too quiet despite how there's still so much sound. That won't fly, and the window opens with no more than a flick of his wrist, colliding against the outer wall with a softthunk. He slides the glass door open for good measure, before securing his mask and standing face to face with his blank canvas. "Echo, play paint list." The music restarts and the muse hits him almost instantly.

With thoughtless motions, finger pressed hard to the rim, he draws through a stream of scattered color. It's a mess of dots and drops, lines and streaks and when he takes a step back, it's nothing more than a disaster—color overlapped, mismatched and misplaced. An untrained eye would find everything it isn't and ignore everything it has yet to become.

It's no more than scrap to someone who can't see the potential, a piece of work waiting to be tossed, much like him, once upon a time—a firm reminder of his once inability to ever be enough, as he was often reminded until one day, it was as irrelevant as their words.

Katsuki shakes it off, drops the cans in hand and reaches for another pair. His eye is trained, able to see what is there even when it's not and he knows before him is nothing more than the groundwork laid. Because it's a foundation; a base to build upon what once was nothing until it becomes something. Coat after coat layers above the first and it begins to take shape. He sees a world born from an idea and a thought, inspiration driven by the one who gave it to him.

He's thankful for the tarp beneath his spread when the color begins to run off of the canvas.

This won't fit an arm , Katsuki absently notes as he takes another stroke but it's okay, because it can always be reworked, and reworked again until it can. The air around him is replaced with fumes and it starts to burn his eyes but inspiration is brimming and refusing to wait for him to get his shit together. So he keeps going, keeps painting, keeps designing, because it's not quite where it needs to be—not quite perfect.

Hours have had to pass, he's damn near sure of it, but he's lost in design and covered in the same colors that cover everything short of the furniture behind his easel. Katsuki takes a step back, one last curve of his arm trailing a line behind it; every inch of white is replaced with some shape, some crescent, something. He's pleased with himself, oozing with confidence until he trails his fingers through his hair.

How the fu—

He has no idea how it got all over him, and quite frankly, doesn't want to know. Katsuki groans, dropping the cans and bee-lining for the bathroom. Shower , and this time when he reaches for his shirt, it comes off with ease because the work is done, the foundation laid and the idea stands tall on top.

A downpour was never a part of their plans. It makes sense when they think about it, why the stars were dull until they were covered entirely by a smooth sheet of gray that only darkened as time went on. It was only a matter of time before it rained on their parade, literally. Still, they made the best of the situation, Ochako laughing and smiling and twirling along the shoreline, the whole reason this get together came to be.

She finds good company in Denki and Hanta, like they knew she would, their antics having her gasp for air more than once. Mina attaches to her instantly, miscommunication long since resolved and forgotten and in the end, the smiles spread.

There's no trace of the sadness Ochako wore when they first met her.

The night air is brisk; it chills as it races by and the rain that starts with a gentle fall cascades down in droves. They race for the cars, drenched and laughing the whole way until they pile in, one car after the other. Ochako peeks behind her as they drive away, watching the shoreline disappear under the curtain of rain, dampening nothing more than the sand left behind.

"This was fun," she sighs, met with faces wearing devilish grins that froze her in place, two parts curious and concerned. "Who said the fun had to end?"

Ochako shivers and it's not because of the cold.

Eijirou doesn't tell her where they're going, downright refuses the next time she asks and when she looks to Izuku, seated next to Eijirou and hopeful, he only shrugs. So much for that, she silently huffs. Her eyes linger on Izuku a few seconds longer, watching the drops of water slide down his arm effortlessly but she's soon lost in the rain that beats against the windows. Looking behind, she wonders idly if any of them knew where they were headed, the car diligently following behind and with no way of asking just yet.

She finds comfort in the back seat she has to herself, a discarded jacket a makeshift blanket that works well enough and waits. It's not long before they pull into a space, one car beside the other and she's met with a complex that stands tall but does nothing to shield them from the rain.

She doesn't know whose house this is.

It could be any one of theirs but when no one reaches for their keys as they run up a flight of stairs and to the nearest door, she's more curious than ever. Hanta reaches beneath a mat, plain and thoroughly soaked and unlocks the door.

There is music blaring from inside, a song that sounds familiar though it's one she couldn't name if she tried. She's alone, left behind as everyone scatters to the kitchen, to the balcony, anywhere they choose as if it's their home-as if they've done this many times before. Ochako is cautious when she takes her first steps into the home, careful not to misplace or run into anything. Her destination is the couch, visible around the foyer but she never makes it there.

Too much is in front of it.

Still she makes her way towards it, abandoning the idea of the couch and fully transfixed with the way her eyes move across every line that stretches across the canvas, every splash of color that blends and mixes with another. The smell of spray paint still lingers in the room, drifting out of the open balcony and window but it adds to the euphoria she feels when she traces the canvas.

In the distance, she thinks she hears the remnants of a shower's end but pays it little mind and when the door opens minutes later, her eyes remain trained. Holes are being drilled into her, she can feel them, a silent question on his lips that dances across her skin.

She knows whose house it is, not because she sees him in the corner of her eye, but because he is the only one capable of this.

The noise is drowned out, the voices and music muffled in their ears. She doesn't hear the way Eijirou and Mina snicker to themselves, pats on the shoulder in a job well done and he doesn't hear Izuku stumble over his question of what exactly is going on? As if Denki or Hanta knew the answer, anyway. For a moment, there is no one there except him, except her.

And she's taking in everything he's lain on canvas, vibrant and full and because of her.

"Round Face?" It comes out strained, full of disbelief because she's there once again, at his house, within his grasp if only he were to reach. He is convinced his exhaustion has gotten the better of him, that she's not really there because there's no fucking way.

But then she turns, eyes bright and playful and entirely on him. The way she smiles knocks his breath away, dazzling and warm and so full of everything he doesn't know but fuck does he want to.

Katsuki is one hundred percent fucked and he knows it.


End file.
